Goodbye Mr Monk
by Stretch Snodgrass
Summary: Years have passed. Mr. Monk is old and dying. However, a brutal murder ignites the city's rage. Mr. Monk is on the case, for the last time. Reviews greatly appreciated.
1. A Desolate Day

**A Desolate Day**

_Tick-Tock_, _Tick-Tock_

Why had Natalie bought that clock as a present for his 75th birthday?

There it was, two rooms away, the grandfather clock, relentlessly counting out the seconds.

_Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock_

Just past the front door, just past his umbrella stand.

_Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock_

The doctor's only gave him a few months left to live, at the most. Soon he'd be too weak to get up from bed - soon, _shudder_ - they'd want him to go a hospital to be cared for in his last, miserable days.

_Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock_

"What was the worst about dying from cancer?" he wondered.

The fact he had agreed to take med's to dull the pain (sooner or later they'd give want to give him some derivative of heroine, Monk shivered - that's what they do to you before they die). Or perhaps, that he was done in by a tumor of multiplying, disorderly, eclectic cells.

No. The worst thing about it was he had failed. He had never got his badge back. He had never solved Trudy's murder.

A knock.

"Come in," said Monk, hoarsely.

"Hello, Mr. Monk," said Natalie. "How are you?"

"Miserable," he complained.

"Don't be, Mr. Monk," said Natalie, walking into the room. "The sun is shining, it's a beautiful day."

Monk was propped up in bed, in usual brown jacket, white shirt and brown trousers.

Natalie, now in her sixties, was similarly still good looking, although her blond hair was now streaked with grey, she had retained her slim figure.

"Guess who's on Channel 11?" asked Natalie.

"I only watch Channel 10," Monk objected.

"Look," said Natalie, ignoring him, "Julie's on. She said you'd like her new hit show. Pretty decent, no sex, no violence, just good ole' fun.

The show was called "Julie's Inn." About a young woman who ran her old uncle's resort hotel, in a bucolic area of the country inhabited by eccentric rural types.

"It's another hit," proclaimed Natalie, proudly. "Best of all, she got the job without ever posing nude, or sleeping with any producer's."

"Good for her," Monk said half heartedly, "I'll be able to see her on the hospital TV."

"Mr. Monk," sighed Natalie, "is that what's getting you down?"

"Of course," said the old man grumpily.


	2. Old Friends

**Old Friends**

Another knock.

"Well, I have a surprise for you," she said. "Guess who's up from Florida, visiting his grandchildren?"

Natalie returned with an thin elderly man, bald and liver spotted, and sporting a large grey mustache.

"Captain - I mean Commissioner," said Monk.

"Just call me Leland,"said Stottlemeyer. "I retired years ago. How's it going, Monk?"

"I'm dying," Monk complained. "They're going to put me in the hospital, I'm . . . ."

Stottlemeyer realized the mistake.

"Do you still do consultant work?"

Monk looked at Natalie.

"It's been five years since he worked with the SFPD," said Natalie.

"The arthritis," Monk explained.

"You know, I figured you'd keep in harness to the end," said Stottlemeyer.

"So did I," said Monk, glumly.

"I have a gift for your birthday," observed Stottlemeyer. "I knew you'd rather stay in the apartment you shared with Trudy.

Stottlemeyer limped out and opened the door.

"There, you've announced me," kvetched a familiar voice.

Monk heard Stottlemeyer limp back, accompanied by the brisk march of a woman in heels.

"Hi, Adrian," said Sharona. She was well dressed, sporting a fancy scarf around her neck.

More conservatively than in years past, yet she still sported the same self-assured posture Monk remembered her by.

"I'm your nurse again, Adrian," she said.


	3. As Time Goes By

**Time Goes By**

Monk was almost happy. Or as close to happy as he could get, since Trudy's untimely death.

While Sharona bustled around, preparing the medical supplies he would need (giving Monk a glare every time he insisted this thermometer, or those revolting tongue depressors, be centered, counted organized, and generally be in such and such a place) Natalie and Stottlemeyer caught up on old times.

To everybody's annoyance, Mr. Monk felt well enough to do a little dusting, polishing and vacuuming.

"Monk," croaked Stottlemeyer (who, had, stereotypical for a man his age, been dazzling Natalie with pictures of his grandchildren), "Sit down, or else I'll get a gallon of milk and pour it all over you."

"No you wouldn't," Monk protested.

"If he doesn't, then I will," Sharona said crossly. "Adrian, I know you love to clean, but if you relax right now I'll let you make the place as neat as you want later.

Monk reluctantly made his way to a chair.

The friends, if can call them that (Monk always considered himself friendless) discussed old times and new.

Sharona Howe, ne Fleming, was now a rich widow, having inherited a fortune from her late husband, who had in turn inherited it from his uncle.

Her husband, Trevor Howe had changed his leeching duplicitous ways, and, legitimately, returned to his rich uncle's good books. However, years of drinking had taken a heavy tole on his liver, and Sharona had buried her husband over a decade ago.

Detective Benji Howe, Sharona proclaimed, had just joined the SFPD. He had followed in Monk's footsteps, and decided to . . . ."

"Not set the world right, but just a tiny piece of it," said Monk proudly.

No," said Sharona, "Catch the murdering bastards."

Monk shrugged awkwardly.

He had been decorated as a cop in L.A., and usually tried to copy Monk's methods. However, Benji did not have the innate skill - thus he worked three times as hard to find the same clues.

Sharona was staying in a nearby hotel. She had come up from West Palm Beach to visit Beji and his young family, when she had heard that Adrian Monk needed her help one last time.

"He's lucky to transfer so easily," observed Stottlemeyer, "Who's chief of homicide now?"

"Captain Disher," smiled Sharona.

"May God have mercy on us all," said Stottlemeyer.

Stottlemeyer had retired to Florida several years before, coincidently in the same community Sharona now called home.

He had remarried, and his second wife and himself were staying with one of his sons from his first marriage. A third son, Leland Jr., was now in college.

Natalie, having long spurned the Davenport fortune, continued to spurn it . . .

"So, you want me to throw my husband's money in San Francisco Bay?" asked Sharona.

That quieted Natalie, who then bragged about her talented daughter's career.

"I saw _The Morning Dove in Mourning_," said Stottlemeyer. "It was a great murder movie."

"My favorite is _Cleaning Up the Town_," Monk put in.

"You know," said Natalie, "Her agent recommended against taking it, but Julie wanted to star in it because she knew you'd like the story. And it was a surprise hit, too.

"I liked her breakout hit best," said Sharona, enthusiastically. "_Monopoly: The Movie_. I love how she plays the poor rich girl who lives in her father's hotel on Boardwalk. She falls in love with the slub who takes care of his crippled, widowed mother in a shack on top of the toxic dump at 13 Mediterranean Avenue."

"That was a great movie," Natalie agreed, "The critics loved her scenes with Baron von Railroad."

"That movie didn't make any sense," Monk complained, "How did the kid from Mediterranean Avenue get out of jail? The first time he rolled dice. Nowhere in any penal code does it say you can get out of jail by using dice. The second time is worse. Uncle Moneybags gives him a card - a Get Out of Jail Free Card! It's anarchy, the entire city was run by hippies and beatniks!"

Sharona's glare was interrupted by the oven timer. She had cooked Chicken Pot Pie for lunch, and it was ready.


	4. A Terrible Crime

**A Terrible Crime Shocks the City**

Sharona had a PLST - plasma lightweight satellite Tv. This was a slim portable television which worked everywhere, via wireless broadcasting.

The "friends" watched the news as they enjoyed their lunch.

"Oh my God," said Natalie suddenly.

"Yesterday we brought you the news that Thomas, "Tommy" Bream, a seven year old boy was abducted." the announcer said solemnly.

The T.V. showed a young boy with black hair, crooked front teeth.

Pictures flashed as a balding Captain Disher stood beside a homely, heavyset woman - identified as Carlotta Bream , the boy's aunt.

"Please," she said, "I'd do anything to make sure little Tommy comes home safe."

"Our suspect," said Disher, "Is a heavy set man in his late forties. He was seen driving away in a white 96' Chevrolet Lumina. The car, not the minivan."

"Do you have any idea who's behind this?" asked a reporter.

"Yes. Classical Pedophile."

Carlotta put a handkerchief over he face, and broke into a fresh spasm of grief.

"Do you have any idea where he is?" asked another newsman. "Are you any closer to rescuing Tommy?"

"We're following leads right now," said Disher indignantly. "Of course we want to rescue him. But it's probably too late by now. After six hours, chances are Tommy's already been brutally murdered - of course we hope and pray that he wasn't - but he probably was."

Carlotta Bream wailed.

"Same ole' Randy," sighed Stottlemeyer. "I hope he's handling the investigation better than he handled the press conference.

"Late breaking news this hour," added the announcer. "A body of a young child has been found washed ashore. The body is reported to have been mutilated by being cut into pieces. An abandoned lumina was recovered nearby."

Sharona dropped her cutlery suddenly, while Natalie put her hands to the mouth. Even Stottlemeyer seemed affected.

Monk just stared at the screen, uncharacteristically rapping his fingers upon the dining room table.

From the news report, he determined four things.

1. There was something odd about this case.

2. An innocent child was brutally murdered.

3. Even if he were in active pursuit of Trudy's killer, she would want the perpetrator of this heinous crime to be apprehended.

4. This was his call to action.

Mr. Monk stood up, and walked to the phone.


	5. Captain Disher

**Down by the Station**

Disher was also rapping his fingers - but on the desk in the office that had, a generation before, belonged to Stottlemeyer.

The Homicide Department had changed, sometime over the years. The one way mirrors in the interrogation rooms were no longer there - the detectives were able to watch an interrogation on plasma screens in nearby meeting rooms.

The long room was not divided into cubicles, dim lights shined on from above - while detectives worked from lap tops with tiny florescent lamps.

A door went directly to "CENTRAL COMPUTING - INSTANT DNA ANALYSIS." Rather than being sent to the ME, strands of DNA could be investigated against the central California file. Taking an instant, rather than days.

Unfortunately for Disher, the state wouldn't make DNA registration mandatory, and the police were stuck with a truncated list including only those who committed a felony or misdemeanor.

California police had been trying to make DNA registration mandatory with driver's license renewal, but lawmakers had, as of yet, refused to pass such a law.

Disher groaned. He had just been balled out by the Chief of Police and the Mayor.

He had told the truth last night, at the conference. It was the classical profile of abduction by a pedophile.

If there was one thing Disher knew, it was the standard rules, regulations and cases a cop should come about.

"Captain," said a dark haired man of average build, with brown, bloodshot eyes. "I have news from Central DNA."

He wore an expensive suit, that had since wrinkled. He had shaved himself roughly that morning, and sported several cuts on the left side of his face.

"Yeah, Benji," snapped Disher, "What's with you people? Don't tell me you have news - tell me what the news is."

"DNA matches," said Benji. "The body belongs to Tommy Bream."

Disher looked around the room, at his various, and mostly useless, electronic gadgets.

"Protocol sais I either send someone to visit Miss Bream, or make a phone call. I'll make a phone call - it's more efficient."

Benji stared at him.

Disher picked up a phone, dialed the number.

"Disher here . . . No . . . But we found his body, it's been hacked into pieces and dumped into the bay . . . Miss Bream . . . Miss Bream, stop crying for a moment . . . After the autopsy the body will be placed in your possession . . . no, an open casket would probably be a terrible idea . . . Sargent Jones'll call when we have more news."

"I should have paid her a visit," sighed Disher. "What do we have on the perp?"

"We couldn't find any fingerprints or DNA evidence in the car," said Benji. "I took several pictures of the interior, but the water's washed the car clean."

"Washed clean?" asked Disher.

"Yes, we believe the perp waited till nightfall, then drove the car down a boat ramp into the bay."

"Any sightings?"

"Yes," said Benji. "The phones have been ringing non-stop. We have reports of the car downtown, in Oakland, on the Golden Gate Bridge, and traveling down Lombard Street."

"How about the license plate?"

That seems to be a dead end. It expired three years ago. It used to belong to an undergrad student - but he sold it about the time the license expired. He's now a med student, and was with a senior physician the entire time.

He also has the bill of sale - to one John Smith.

"Then find John Smith," demanded Disher. "Go through every John Smith in California."

"It's an alias," Benji objected. "He paid in cash, and never registered the car."

"Have Johnson do it. He might come up with something."

"It's a fool's errand."

"Who's a fool?"

"Noone," muttered Benji. "It's an expression."

Disher sent Benji on his way. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

Why blame him? He wanted to catch the bastard as much as anyone in the city. Looking at the file at his side, he glanced at the picture of the young boy's life so cruelly cut short.

He'd gladly administer the needle himself - or put on the hangman's noose. But they'd have to find him.

Disher thought back, many long years to his time at police academy. These cases were solved one way: only thing to do was to wait for someone to spot the man - John Smith. Composites had been released to the press. After no more than a week, Smith ought to be found. They usually were.

Or it could be something else - when was the last time a pedophile took a toured the city with his victim. Disher had a few theories starting to swirl around in his head.

Of course, there was an old man, sick and dying, who might give him the answer. But he rarely did child murders, none so far as Disher could remember.

Disher was about to put on his coat, and pay Monk a visit when he received a message from his young secretary.

"Phone call Captain - It's Adrian Monk."

"Put him through," said Disher, eagerly.


	6. Mr Monk is on the Case

**Mr. Monk is on the Case**

Disher was astonished when Monk agreed to come to the station (despite objections in the background - from who, he didn't know). He was even more surprised to see him come with not only Natalie, but Sharona and Stottlemeyer in tow.

Sharona left to talk to Benji (to his embarrassment), while Monk, Stottlemeyer and Natalie were updated on the case.

"The pedophile drove around the city?" asked Monk, astonished. "Are you sure it's a pedophile?"

"Mostly," said Disher, defensive. "The man was seen luring Tommy with a popsicle."

"Didn't his parents ever warned him about taking candy from strangers?" said Natalie.

"He was a posthumous child," said Stottlemeyer, looking closely at the file. "Father died of a heart attack, five months before he was born. Mother died in a car accident, the day he was born. He was delivered by emergency C- section."

"Liet - Cap-tain," said Monk, awkwardly. "I think there's something else involved. I'm not an expert on this type of crime, but I do know that a pedophile wouldn't drive aimlessly around the city."

"He probably didn't, Monk," croaked Stottlemeyer. "You know that a lot of these witnesses only _think_ they saw the perp. A lot of good samaritans who only make our job twice as difficult."

Benji came in with Sharona. Sharona's face was uncommonly pale.

"Captain," he started.

"Just tell me," groaned Disher.

Stottlemeyer coughed hoarsely. Monk gave Benji a double-take.

"We have a picture of the perp, from a red light camera in the Business District."

"The Business District," exclaimed Monk. "Captain," he said, turning to Stottlemeyer - Stottlemery pointed to Disher -

"There's no way this was a sick-o pedophile. This is nowhere near where the car was found."

"So we're just looking for a plain old child murderer," said Sharona, sarcastically.

"You know," put in Disher eagerly, "I thought of it. I have a theory."

"This isn't the time for jokes," said Sharona.


	7. Disher's Theory

**Disher's Theory**

"I have them all drawn out," bragged Disher, to the assembled group. "Tell them my theory"

Benji obliged.

"As you know, when Brandon Bones, the medical student, was in undergrad, he used the car to deliver pizzas," he said, reluctantly. "_The Captain_ thinks he may still be using it for work - abducting Tommy Bream for some science experiment gone horribly wrong.

When Tommy died, Bones tried to dispose of the evidence.

"Dr. Jenkins," began Disher, "is a famous researcher. Doctors like him need . . ."

"I"ve heard enough," croaked Stottlemeyer. "I don't know what's worse. The crime or Theory No. 1."

"Besides," said Monk, "Dr. Jenkins is almost as old as Natalie . . . .

"Mr. Monk," Natalie fumed.

". . . and Bones certainly isn't a middle aged man."

"Let me see the composite again," said Monk.

He stared at the face of an obese man, sallow and unshaven. The face was largely nondescript, the nose, mouth, and eyes were sunken into several pounds of flab

"This are unusual brow ridges," said Monk, looking at the picture. "Did you check out Miss Bream?"

The others stared at him.

"I did, on a hunch," said Benji. "She was next door taking piano lessons, from 3:00-5:00. She was with her piano teacher, one Professor Towers. They were also seen by Towers' maid, Mrs. Fernandez."

"Besides," said Disher, skeptically, "the poor woman's distraught."

"Maybe she is, and maybe she isn't," said Monk. "But I'd like to meet her."

"I'll call her," said Disher. "But you're wasting your time."

"No he isn't," smiled Natalie.


	8. Detective Howe

**Detective Howe**

The sobbing Miss Bream had agreed to meet with Monk - the following morning. It was just as well, as Monk was tired from the cleaning and the general stress of the day.

_Tick, Toc_k

That malevolent grandfather clock never stopped. But he was no longer along. Natalie had lingered all day. Sharona had relieved her that evening, preparing Monk's medications, and taking his pulse before his retired for the night.

"I want to talk to you," said Sharona.

"You are," Monk observed.

"What do you think of Benji?" asked Sharona.

"Well, from what I hear about his career . . . ."

"You KNOW what I mean."

She gave him her look.

"I'd say he's drinking heavily, at least three times a week," said Monk, reluctantly. "For two, maybe three years. It's usually takes a while for chronic . . . _slovenliness _(over here, Monk shuddered) to come in. It starts with crooked ties, then dirty suits, then . . . complete anarchy.

"That all?" asked Sharona.

"I noticed the bar receipts, he stuffs them in the back of his wallet," said Monk.

"His wife was pretty cold today," said Sharona.

"She still loves him," said Monk. "That suit may be wrinkled, but you can see it was dry cleaned not so long ago. Otherwise it would still be dirtier. The condition he's in, he's be in the last degrees of shabbiness by now.

Plus those scratches were briefly band-aided. You can see the marks where he pulled them off, after he left his wife. Benji would never show up to work with bandaids.

He also drank a good deal of hot coffee. You can tell by how wide open his eyes were. It must have peculated by his wife, so he could go to work in half-decent shape.

Benji would never drink coffee on his own."

"I never drank coffee when I was twelve," sighed Sharona. "But you're right, Benji was never much of a coffee drinker."

"I notice he didn't have a coffee mug at his desk, just a cup of water," Monk explained.

Sharona was silent for a moment.

"He's just like his father was," she said.

"He's not cheating on his wife," Monk put in.

"His finger is swollen, and you can see the ring hasn't been taken off in years. He has a picture of his family - and his parents - in his wallet. You can also see his coat's been stained with some sort of liquor at one point."

"What does that prove?" Sharona inquired.

"He has the first few drinks with his coat on," said Monk. "He goes to a bar to get drunk, not to meet women."

"How do you know he doesn't do both."

"His briefcase is also stained," said Monk. "He often brings it in and puts it on the bar."

"Why would he do that?" asked Sharona.

"It's engraved, "From your wife, on your fifth anniversary," Monk observed. "He's reminding himself he's not in the market. Or, at least, he was."

"Was?" asked Sharona.

Monk pointed to a small attache case Benji had loaned him.

"He once used that to carry sensitive documents. Now he keeps them in his briefcase. He doesn't take his briefcase it into to the bar anymore.

"You have to talk to him," said Sharona, suddenly.

"Why?"

"I tried talking to him, but he denied the whole thing." sighed Sharona.

"Benji still respects you, after all these years he respects you. I don't know why, but he does. After all, he did choose to be a detective.

Benji's on his way to divorce, disgrace, and an early grave. You have to try."

Monk's concern was murder. He didn't know how to talk to Benji when he was young, and he had no idea what to say to a grown man with a family - and an alcoholic to boot.

_Tick - Tock_

After a moment's pause, Monk nodded.

_Tick - Tock_


	9. She's the Guy

**She's the Guy**

It was early the next day when Monk, accompanied by Sharona and Natalie, called upon Miss Bream.

Miss Bream lived in a neat old house, with a well painted picket fence and manicured lawn. Roses poked out from behind a series of eclectic garden gnomes.

"Adrian," started Sharona, as Monk took the first steps to reorganizing them.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, a coughing fit distracted him.

Sharona used the opportunity to guide him to a porch swing.

"Here, Mr. Monk," said Natalie.

She had purchased a checked towel for Monk to sit on, so he'd have no qualms about sitting in a "contaminated chair."

While this was going on, Miss Bream had opened the door - eyes as bloodshot as Beji's, but for different reasons no doubt.

The eyes did little to flatter Carlotta's doughy face, and solid body. But she managed a smile, and invited them into her parlor.

The parlor was decorated with neat old furniture, and an old grand piano encompassed one corner of the room.

The parlor was separated from an office by a pair of double french doors. An old mahogany desk sat in splendor, empty save for a pile of yellowed papers and envelopes in the right hand corner.

"My poor nephew," she said, and broke into a fresh spout of tears.

"There, there," said Natalie.

Monk was wondering around, and pointing out a piece of pink material on a chair. Sharona quickly grabbed it and put it into her purse.

"You enjoy playing the piano?" Monk asked.

"Yes," said Carlotta, blushing. "Now, it's the only love of my life."

"Where does the Professor live?" he asked.

"Next door," said Carlotta.

"I see," said Monk. "That's all we need."

"What?" said Sharona and Natalie, together.

Monk got up abruptly, or at least he tried.

"Miss Bream," he said.

"Yes," she cooed.

"There's not going to be a wedding."

The color drained out of Carlotta's face, as Monk, Sharona and Natalie left.

Out on the street, Sharona and Natalie eyed Monk, while he in turn eyed the Professor's house.

It was as large as Miss Bream's, but nowhere near as well kept. The lawn was half dead, and scraggly bushed hugged the ramshackle front porch. The paint had weathered away, and the windows on the second floor were flanked by shutters on crooked hinges. The dormer windows on the top floor had been shuttered and boarded up completely.

"She's the guy," said Monk, with a sigh, looking at the desolate house with disapproval.

"She loves the professor. Notice how she blushed when I mentioned her lessons."

"She was also rubbing her ring finger," Natalie observed.

"But what why would she kill her nephew," said Sharona.

"The professor needs the money," Monk said, simply.


	10. Back at Homicide

**Back at Homicide**

Stottlemeyer had decided to spend the day catching up on old times. He found it hard to believe he was nostalgic for the daily grind in the homicide department.

But, then again, he spent most of his working life captaining it.

"He's a drunk," said Stottlemeyer to Disher. "It's as plain as the red nose on his face."

"I know it," said Disher. "When I call him off duty he's always slurring and hiccuping. It's sort of funny."

"I bet Sharona doesn't think so," said Stottlemeyer.

"I don't care," shrugged Disher. "He's a good detective. He's always sober on duty - he's not breaking any regulations."

Besides, you can tell what day of the week is by how plastered he looks."

"Speak of the devil," Stottlemeyer observed.

Benji came in, looking the worse than the day before.

"Thursday," said Disher, triumphantly.

Stottlemeyer and Benji glanced at him. Disher turned his attention to his laptop.

"I've been studying Miss Bream's affairs."

"And . . . ." hinted Disher, irritably.

"Her late father left the vast majority of his fortune to be shared equally between Miss Bream, her brother, and their heirs. The one stipulation was that, by the terms of the will, the fortune would not go to the beneficiaries until 21 years after either Miss Bream or her brother dies."

"So she killed her nephew, so she could inherit the whole thing in 15 years," asked Disher.

"Not really . . ." started Benji, but he was interrupted by a phone call.

"Really? . . . Okay, we know, . . . Mrs. Fernandez's number . . . uh

Benji handed Disher a sheet, Stottlemeyer looked over to see Benji's tottering, drunken, illegible characters.

"His drinking doesn't affect the job," muttered Stottlemeyer, sarcastically.


	11. Mr Monk Plays the Piano

**Mr. Monk Plays the Piano**

Mrs. Fernandez had already left.

"Oh my God," said Sharona.

The plump, Hispanic woman had just driven up in an ancient, battered Volvo station wagon.

"That's my car," she said.

"How do you know it's the same," said Natalie.

"It is," said Monk. "I recognize the dent."

"I don't think . . . ."

While Sharona and Natalie argued about the Volvo, Monk greeted Mrs. Fernandez.

Natalie rushed out to hand her employer a wipe.

"SI, Mr. Monk," said Mrs. Fernandez, "I work for both of them. A nice lady, but a very strange gentleman.

Mrs. Fernandez, it seems, was there yesterday, cleaning Miss Bream's house first, then going to Professor Towers. The last he saw of Miss Bream, she went in for lessons.

"How do you know they were there the whole time," Sharona asked.

"Miss Bream, I hear her play, she play terrible. Professor Towers, he talk to her. Play like angel, to teach her. Instruct her, come out every so often to drink water - and cry a little."

Professor Towers was leaving his house that very moment. Wearing a fedora hat, black gloves, a threadbare coat, and sporting long, unruly grey hair; he was the very picture of eccentricity.

"Mrs. Fernandez," said he, as he made for an elderly Buick in a tumbledown garage. "I suggest you begin immediately, instead of chatting on the sidewalk. Remember, go in the back way."

"There's a nice girl," said Towers pompously, as Mrs. Fernandez did as she his bidding.

"You must keep the servants in their place," he added.

"It's too bad you're leaving," said Mr. Monk.

"Ah, but it is a nice day for an automobile tour, is it not?"

"I was wondering if I could take some lessons?" asked Mr. Monk. "I heard you were the best teacher . . . .

"Professor, my good man," said the Professor graciously, puffing up like a bullfrog, "I have a Ph. D. in Music."

"I have, of course, no qualms in putting aside my trip for the benefit of a music lover - no matter what the age, it is never too late."

The Professor named his price. Monk balked, but Sharona met it.

"Then it is agreed, we'll start with an intense six hours of preparatory lessons."

Sharona and Natalie decided to follow the Monk in.

"WE MUST be alone," said the Professor.

"It's okay," said Monk.

Sharona and Natalie departed - ever so reluctantly.


	12. Mr Monk is in the Trunk

**Mr. Monk is in the Trunk**

Sharona and Natalie approached the dark house with some trepidation.

"He should have called by now," said Natalie.

"We ought to call the Captain - or better yet, Benji," said Sharona. "I don't like this."

"Why, my lady," said Professor Towers, stepping outside and brandishing a gun, "you are my most welcome guest."

With that, he pistol whipped the two woman.

When they came to, they were in the trunk of a car, along with Monk.

Monk was already hyperventilating.

"Carlotta must have called him," he babbled. "When he came back, he used a vase to knock me out."

"Adrian," complained Sharona. "You could have warned us."

"I was playing Brahm's Lullaby," said Monk.

"He's going to kill us," Natalie observed, or maybe Sharona. It was difficult to tell.

"Probably," Monk admitted. "But his plan's messed up. This seems like his Buick."

"How do you know?" asked Natalie.

"Newer cars have a escape lever in back," whined Monk.

"Wait, wait," said Sharona. "I always keep a spare cell, just for emergency's like this."

"The Professor must have taken mine," Natalie said.

"He'd better not have stolen mine. Where I keep it, he has no business" said Sharona.

Sharona shuffled for the phone.

"That's my eye," said Natalie.

A dim light shone as Sharona removed the phone from her breasts.

A sudden bump sent it spinning from her hands. Somewhere in a far corner of the trunk the dim light shone, the phone ringing uselessly.

"Get it, Adrian," said Sharona.

"I can't," said Monk weakly.

He was exhausted from his disease, being thrown around the trunk, confined in such a small area, and having the two women resting somewhere on top of him

He fainted.

"Mr. Monk," Natalie screamed.


	13. A Tale of Two Captains

**A Tale of Two Captains**

Captain Disher was fiddling with some gadget.

Stottlemeyer had dropped by to check up on the case. While they were waiting for feedback, Stottlemeyer decided to show Disher a digital photo album - of his grandchildren.

"Here's little Leland," said Stottlemeyer, "Taking his ninth step."

"Uh - huh," said Disher, absentmindedly.

The phone rang.

Disher picked it up, and promptly hung up.

"Who was that?" asked Stottlemeyer.

"Benjy," gagged Disher. "He's drunk . . . and raving."

"About what?"

"Something about Sharona, Natalie, and Monk being in a trunk of a car."

Disher and Stottlemeyer looked at one another.

"Wait," said Disher, fishing for a file on his notebook computer. "That Piano Professor dude has a gun."

The two of them rushed up, at least as much as men their age could.


	14. The Drunk

**The Drunk**

Stottlemeyer had fetched Detective Howe from the bar.

Meanwhile, Disher had put in an APB on Professor Tower's Buick.

"Hya Captain," slurred Benjy. "Whare you doing -ere?"

Red eyed and seemingly off-color in the face, he was a sight for sore eyes.

"He said his mother called him on her cell phone," panted Stottlemeyer, leaning on his cane.

He was exhausted from directing the tottering drunk.

"From what he heard, Sharona, Monk and Natalie are in real trouble. Professor Towers locked them in the trunk."

"Yup," said Benjy, "He was even gloating . . . like a James Bond villian-ian-ian. Wush I could remember."

"What?" asked Disher and Stottlemeyer.

"I needsanothersdrinks," slurred Benjy.

"We're getting nowhere," groaned Disher.

Stottlemeyer thought for a second, then gave Benjy a swipe with his cane.

"You can't assault a police officer," Disher protested.

Benjy drunkenly put up his dukes.

"Na," said the lush.

"Never mind that," said Stottlemeyer. "What was Towers babbling about?"

"Uh, drowning them in the trunk at high tide, ors somethin'," said Benjy.

Wide eyed, he began to struggle alert.

"Is your phone still on?" asked Stottlemeyer.

"'Course," started Benjy.

"Come on," said Disher, pushing the drunken detective in the car.

The three of them sped off.


	15. Mr Monk is All Wet

**Mr. Monk is All Wet**

The Buick was half submerged in the cool waters of San Francisco Bay. However, the Professor was still nearby, gloating over his nefarious victory.

"Noone can stop me," he shouted.

Inside the trunk, Monk, Sharona and Natalie had barely any air - and the three of them were barely about the salt water.

"I swear, that professor has a couple of screws loose," said Sharona.

"HALT," said a new voice.

"It's Randy," said Natalie.

Disher, Stottlemeyer and Benjy had driven up to the water's edge.

"Not now," laughed Towers.

He began to shoot at them, but his aim was erratic.

One shot from Disher and it was over.

"Not the way I wanted it to end," said Disher, blithely, as Stottlemeyer called for backup.

Disher fished in the Professor's pockets, and pulled out the car keys.

Disher was pale as the dead Professor - killing was something he'd never get used to, despite his quip to the contrary.

He tossed the keys to Benjy - a little better for wear after two cups of black coffee. He stumbled into the water and opened the trunk.

"Thank's," said Natalie, ironically, as she waded up the water.

"Benjy," said Sharona, shaking her head.

"Your mother wants me to tell you not to drink," said Monk, still in the trunk, but coming out of his daze.

".K," stuttered Benjy, "Nevers again."

"You'll thank me later," Monk said - then he froze as he saw the rising water.

"Come on," said Disher.

Disher and Benjy pulled the bruised and soaked Adrian Monk to shore.


	16. The Summation

**The Summation**

It was Friday morning.

Disher could tell that much by the fact Benjy was unshaven and sporting a terrible hangover. Sharona watched him take a couple of painkillers.

"I'm joining A.A.," he reassured her.

"About time," said Natalie, pouring the detective another cup of black coffee.

Monk wasn't much better. He was holding a comforter. Despite having no broken bones, Sharona could tell he needed to be sent to bed.

An officer arrived with Stottlemeyer and Miss Bream in tow.

"Well, Monk," said Disher, "Will you do the honors?"

"Here's what happened. You killed your nephew"

Miss Bream nodded, once again sobbing.

_In Black and White_

You were an old maid. Desperate to get married. And who should sweep you off your feet but (_Here Mr. Monk coughed_) the distinguished music professor next door.

"And he's gone," sobbed Miss Bream.

"He never loved you," said Sharona.

"Just your money - or rather your father's," Monk resumed. "He needed some badly, and wanted it all. So he encouraged you to take your nephew for a ride. So much so, that three years ago you disguised yourself as a man and brought that old car from the med student."

_In Living Color_

_At this point Monk fell into a sudden sneezing fit. Natalie handed him several wipes._

_In Black and White_

"We found a suit of man's clothes in your attic," said Disher. "You must have smeared mud on your face to make it look like you needed to shave."

"Mr. Monk saw the insulation in your parlor," said Stottlemeyer.

Monk resumed.

"There was no limit to your debauchery," he said sternly. "But you were just stalling for time. You couldn't bear to kill your charge. So you used all your feminine charms went to work on the professor, but it didn't work."

"No surprise there," quipped Disher.

"I don't know how long it took, but Professor Towers won you over.

Your money was not enough for him. He wanted the whole fortune, and he wanted it immediately.

He knew that if you were the sole heir, you could petition to receive the entire estate immediately, instead of waiting another fifteen years to get a hold of the money.

"The courts would grant it, its long been established jurisprudence to vest the estate right away," Benjy interrupted.

_In Living Color_

He was stared into silence by his mother.

_In Black and White_

"You picked up your nephew - the Professor having conveniently created an alibi, just in case. You disguised yourself to strangers as a pedophile.

"But your nephew trusted you," said Natalie. "He either saw it was you, or you told him to meet you after school in that car, before the whole thing started."

"You drove around the city, killing time before dark. Then, Towers met you at that isolated point, and murdered your nephew - while you cried on national TV, well aware of what was going on."

_In Living Color_

"I wanted someone to love me," cried Carlotta.

"You had someone," observed Stottlemeyer, "Your nephew."

"Take her away," said Disher.

Monk, helped by Sharona and Natalie, was also on his way out.

Disher, in one of his curious storms of inspiration, stood up and gave Monk a round of applause.

He was copied by everyone in the room.

It was a fitting farewell for Monk. It was the last time he would ever set foot in homicide.


	17. Mr Monk is on His Deathbed

**Mr. Monk is on his Deathbed**

The sojourn in the cold bay water, and the stuffy trunk of the car, served to further Adrian Monks final decline.

_Tick - Tock_

Struggling onward, Mr. Monk spent most of his time in bed.

_Tick - Tock_

"Monk," said Captain Disher, taking a seat beside the ailing detective.

"Captain."

"Hey, call me Lieutenant. Hey, remember how I used to call you the Defective Detective?"

"Did you?" asked Monk.

"Oh, uh. Well, I wrote a song in your honor."

"A song?!" Monk said, in dismay.

Fortunately Disher didn't hear him. He picked up his guitar, and played "Ode to San Francisco's Sherlock Holmes."

Monk managed to grin throughout the 39 stanzas.

_Tick -Tock_

It was Julie. Regaled in an expensive dress, she drifted in, as graceful as a modern day Grace Kelly.

"Do you want to hear some lines from my upcoming movie, Mr. Monk?" she asked.

"It's a drama, isn't it?"

"How did you know?"

"You never did many dramatic roles, and I could tell be how tattered the script is, that you've been studying it extensively."

_Tick-Tock_

It was Benjy. Cleaned up.

"Mr. Monk, some people can take it or leave it alone," said Benjy, reading a card.

"And for others 1 is too many and a 1000 isn't enough," said Monk, watery.

Sharona appeared out of the corner of his eye.

"See, I knew if you gave it to him in the way of the old cliche, he'd appreciate it all the more."

"Thank you, Mr. Monk," said Benjy. "For everything."

"It's the first time," smiled Monk faintly.

"First time for what?" asked Benjy.

"That I told someone they'd "Thank me Later," and they actually thanked me later.

"First time they had something to thank you for," said Sharona.

Thinking better of it, she added, "First time they _really_ had something to thank you for.

_Tick -Tock_

Stottlemeyer came by, and they sat for hours, recalling old cases.

And the happiest years of Monk's life, when he was a Detective with the SFPD and married to his dear wife Trudy.

_Tick - Tock_

Now Monk's apartment was quieter than ever. Sharona, with Natalie's help, cared for Monk in his final days.

_Tick - Tock_

"It's soon, isn't it," Monk asked Sharona one day.

"What, Adrian?" asked Sharona, feigning ignorance.

"Where is it on my list of fears?" asked Monk. "I can't remember."

Sharona looked.

"Somewhere between mushrooms and elevators."

"Oh," said Monk.

Monk rarely left his bed. Only to use the washroom.

Sharona decided to read to him. "Sherlock Holmes."

"I think he already read it," said Natalie. "And you know Mr. Monk's memory."

"It won't hurt for him to hear it again," said Sharona.

So she read to him. And Monk didn't complain.

_Tick -Tock_

Natalie helped Monk to his desk, while Sharona prepared another chicken pot pie.

Adrian Monk looked over the old materials. The pictures of the car bomb that claimed his beloved wife. The news clippings.

Nothing. Nothing.

_Tick - Tock_

_Tick - Tock_

Mr. Monk was very low that night. Sharona and Natalie knew he was unlikely to see the morning.

They sat by his side, far into the night.

_Tick - Tock_

_Tick_

Adrian Monk opened his eyes.

Sharona and Natalie were fast asleep.

Only he realized that the grandfather clock had stopped in its relentless ticking.

And there was someone else in the room.


	18. Mrs Monk

**Mrs. Monk**

It was Trudy, bathed in a soft white light, she came to the side of the bed.

"Adrian," said she.

"Trudy," sobbed Monk, hugging her.

"I failed you," he said.

"You never failed me," Trudy protested.

She whispered something in his ear.

"I should have known," murmured Monk.

"He's already faced a higher court than the next assizes," said Trudy softly.

"Memoir's of Sherlock Holmes," said Monk, trying the reference the quotation. "But I can't remember."

"You _don't _ have to remember everything, Adrian," said Trudy, sitting by his side.

They glanced at Sharona and Natalie.

"I"m so glad Sharona and Natalie were there to help you out," Trudy said.

"They were . . . swell," said Monk.

Trudy laughed gently.

"Adrian . . . can you do me a small favor?"

Trudy handed him the Christmas Present she had given him many years ago. The one Adrian Monk never opened.

Carefully, Monk unwrapped it. Inside was a gold watch, with the simple inscription: _To Adrian, Love Trudy_.

The minute hand moved to the hour, as Monk placed it upon his gaunt wrist. It played the first few notes of the "_Anniversary Song_."

"Thank you, Trudy," said Monk.

"Now it's time," said Trudy, gently.

As Monk took her arm, he remarked:

"It's not nearly as frightening as elevators or mushrooms."

They laughed.


	19. Goodbye Mr Monk

**Goodbye Mr. Monk**

"Adrian?" said Sharona, waking up.

"Mr. Monk?" tried Natalie, emerging from a deep sleep.

Mr. Monk was silent, and would be so, forevermore.

The two women comforted one other.

"Look!" said Natalie, through her tears. "He opened Trudy's present. But how did he . . . Trudy?"

"Some mysteries," said Sharona sadly, "aren't to be answered.

_Silence_.

Sharona pulled herself together

"The clock's stopped," she said. "Well, we can't. Adrian would probably want his "assistants" to get straight to work -he'd want the certificate ASAP."

With that, she left the room.

Natalie followed.

"Goodbye, Mr. Monk" she said fondly, shutting the door behind her.

The End.


End file.
